Volatus Aquilae
by Rainsaber
Summary: Q comes from a special gene pool. And said gene pool just happens to be one of the most powerful families in England that just can't help but attract the world's most dangerous criminals. Q/Bond, Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Althea.
1. Chapter 1 - Hacked

**Volatus Aquilae  
**

 **Summary:** Q comes from a special gene pool. And said gene pool just happens to be one of the most powerful families in England that just can't help but attract the world's most dangerous criminals. Q/Bond, Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Althea.

 **A/N:** My muses thought it was completely hilarious how much Q looks like a mini-Sherlock and they nagged me horrendously until this. I don't know how often I'll be able to update this, but I will try my best. This will be a long multi-chaptered story, and with as much bad-assness as I can cram into it. Also, the title loosely translates from Latin into "Flight of the Eagles" which will also have a part to play eventually, so keep an eye out for that. This chapter is sort of in the middle of the story and all the action, but the next chapter will of course start from the beginning and get you up to speed very quickly.

 **Warnings:** I don't plan to pull many punches with this story. It's including James Bond after all, so there will be plenty of action (of the romantic kind and non-romantic kind), some colorful language, and whatever else I need to give you guys appropriate warnings about.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own James Bond. I don't own Sherlock. Conan-Doyle created Sherlock. Ian Fleming created James Bond. Brilliant authors who have left a lasting impression on literature and old and modern culture with clearly unforgettable characters. I am nothing but envious.

* * *

 **Chapter One – Hacked**

A loud incessant beeping woke Q in the middle of the night. It came from his laptop on the bureau across his bedroom. He groaned and spared a glance at the alarm clock by his bedside before shoving his glasses on his face. Two in the morning! What the hell could be happening at two in the bloody morning that needed his immediate attention that his otherwise self-designed security systems couldn't handle on their own? He continued to grumble to himself as he dragged his tired body out of bed and over to the computer. He didn't even bother to turn on a light, determined to make this as quick as possible. Just as he pulled the screen up, it went black. Then letters started appearing on the screen, typing out words.

 _WAKEY WAKEY, Q._

He frowned, briefly thinking that perhaps this was some strange dream and he should go back to bed. Back to bed in his dream. That made sense. That was logical. But his dreams weren't usually this logical because logically, he came to the conclusion that someone was hacking his computer, someone who thought they were smart, someone who didn't know who he or she was up against. Asleep or awake, Q did love to make those sorry little people out to be right idiots, so by the light of the city from his window, he let his fingers fly across the keyboard, shaking his head at the moderate inconvenience. He would need a double shot of espresso in the morning.

Nothing changed, except the letters.

 _TSK. TSK. TSK._

Q sighed and shook his head.

Definitely awake, then. How delightful.

Even in his dreams it only took a flick of the wrist to send them scurrying for cyber-cover. He tried back-hacking the user, but got another taunting message for his efforts.

 _NAUGHTY NAUGHTY, LITTLE BOY._

Q smiled. "We'll see who's naughty in a moment."

Perhaps a triple shot before his morning shift. He didn't like to indulge too often, but this time he would make an exception for himself.

This hack was going to be a memorable one. This time the clicking sound of computer keys sped up, making a nearly consistent and unbroken cacophony in the quiet of the night. As expected, the eerie words disappeared and the black screen reverted back to his desktop. Child's play, he thought as he began a system's check for any activity that went on beneath the surface. He was a little disappointed it didn't take him longer, but for someone roughly at his level of technological expertise, he supposed he couldn't be too let down. No one, after all, could do what he did. MI6 paid him specifically for what he could do that others could not.

He was about to turn his back and reclaim his bed, but not ten seconds had elapsed and the diagnostics screen came back up with a message.

 _AH,_ _CLEVER BOY…_

Q frowned. It had to have taken them less than five seconds to hack that diagnostics program. And it _had_ to be multiple hackers. No one was that fast except for him.

 _FAMILY TRAIT, CLEVERNESS._

Something in the pit of his stomach started turning sour. Q never kept personal identifying information on his computer. Not his address. Not his name. Nothing that could be stolen and used as collateral or blackmail. Every government issued computer had a failsafe switch that would automatically activate the moment the tracker left the confines of the home network, erasing the entire memory of the hard drive without any capability for resurrection. It was Q's own idea that in recent years had saved a lot of lives and fragile information that could have potentially started international wars. The only place any such personal identifying information existed for Q was in the mainframe of MI6, tucked safely away where not even he could gain access.

 _I KNOW A SECRET…_

 _I KNOW A SECRET…_

 _A HOLMES KEPT SECRET._

His heart was not beginning to pound. This was not what fear felt like. But why wasn't he typing? Why couldn't he bring his fingers to move?

 _FEAR THE MOONRAKER._

 _XOXO–M &M._

"What," Q voiced, confused but with a strangely calm voice.

 _SAY HELLO...  
_

Seconds later he couldn't say the same for his voice. When the words disappeared on the screen and were replaced by a video feed of the front of his apartment building, and of an eerily familiar man who didn't even make an effort to disguise himself, he cursed. Q watched as the video feeds changed once the intruder walked out of frame. The man walked into the main lobby and, without a missing a step, he shot the man at the front desk and continued on at the same casual pace toward he elevators.

But he walked right past them and chose the stairs.

Walking up, floor after floor after floor towards his floor-

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit," he cursed. Q fumbled for his phone in the dark and contacted the first person that came to mind. The line hadn't even rung once before a harsh beeping filled his ears. "I'm sorry, this call cannot be completed as dialed-"

He ripped the phone away from his ear and searched for another. "Damn you, 007. If you dropped that bloody cell phone into the Thames _again!_ -"

He tried Mycroft.

It rang once, twice, three times, four, five...

Mycroft wasn't answering…

 _Mycroft wasn't answering._

Dread started to sink down from his gut to his knees.

Mycroft _always_ answered his phone.

Q looked back to the video feed, which had suddenly gone dark. Acting on instinct, he threw open his bedside drawer and grabbed the government issued glock that he never had a single reason to touch before. Not until now. But his hands were steady as he slammed the ammo into place, flicked the safety off, and returned to his phone, calling his last chance before he was likely to be taken.

Or worse.

If this was all meant to be a message, this would go very badly indeed.

Sherlock answered on the second ring, gruff and annoyed. "What?"

"Mycroft isn't answering his phone," Q answered.

"And why is that my problem?"

"Sherlock, _he's here._ "

"Well then what the bloody hell are you calling me for?!-"

"You twit," Q snapped, feeling the effects of panic begin to take hold. "I'm not talking about Mycroft!-"

 _Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock._

Q's attention snapped from the phone to the front door, where the light from the hallway cast a shadow of a presence between the door and the floor. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, peering out like a child on the verge of darting into a dead-run.

 _Knock._

But he had nowhere to go.

 _Knock._

Not on the tenth floor of a high-rise.

Silence.

And the shadow was still there.

Quiet and waiting.

"Put me on speaker," Sherlock said in his ear, quiet and commanding.

Q wanted to ask him why, but found his mouth unable to move.

"He wants me to listen."

Q took a deep breath and did as Sherlock asked.

"Ohhhhhh Sherloooooock," the sing-song voice called. "Little brother go crying to you did he? Didn't get any attention from his bulldog? Or the real ruler of the Holmes roost? Bit tied up with other matters, were they both now?"

"Oh God," Q whispered, realizing why Mycroft hasn't answered. It was absolutely impossible, but it made sense why, as terrible as it was.

"He's bluffing," Sherlock said softly.

"Am I, Sherlock," the man at the door asked. "But I'm interested to know what our little Quartermaster thinks. Little Quincy Holmes. Didn't know you had a little brother. Locked away in MI6 where dear old big brother thought little brother would be safest while the big boys go playing with the grown-ups. But I hear tell big brother didn't invite you either, Sherlock. That wasn't very nice of him, was it?"

"Where is Mycroft," Sherlock demanded.

"Safe. For now."

Q glanced back at his computer. The screen hadn't changed, but the near constant blinking from the router betrayed what kind of activity was going on beneath the surface.

"What do you want," Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock," Q hissed. "There are proper channels for dealing with this-"

"Quincy, stay out of this-"

"He is a bloody terrorist!"

"STAY OUT OF THIS!"

" _Does Daddy need to come in there and separate you two?!_ "

Q took Sherlock off-speaker and pressed the device to his ear, bringing the gun aloft and aiming straight for the door, feeling anger unlike the which he had ever felt before. "Sherlock," Q whispered, harshly and with an unspoken ultimatum. "What do I do?"

"Are you armed?"

Q resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm a quartermaster for MI6, of course I am-What do I do?"

"Is no one coming?"

Q inched back to the window and looked out at the empty street below and took a deep breath. "…no."

"Call his bluff. If he wanted to take you, he would have done so by now."

Q turned back to the door, and found the shadow gone. Cautiously, he inched closer to the door and peered through the peephole. No one was there. Against his better judgment he unlocked the door and opened it slowly, gun in front. He looked down either direction of the hallway and found it deserted. And no other residents of the floor had come out to check either, which puzzled him. There weren't many of them per floor, as the flats were quite generous in terms of square footage, but he would have at the very least thought the rich old woman who always complained about noise would have voiced some grievances. And yet, nothing.

"Quincy? What's happening?"

Q raised the phone back to his ear and returned to his flat, double-locking his door behind him. "He's gone," he replied, in no small amount of relief. "I don't know where. And the computer's back.

"He hacked into your computer? What for?"

Q quickly shut all the shades after he put the gun down next to his computer. "Oh we had a _lovely_ one-sided little chat. Very interesting fellow, your nemesis."

"Run systems diagnostics, see if he took anything."

" _Thank you_ , Dr. Obvious. Let's see, he rooted around my network for a while and found nothing, of course. Then he jumped ship and…oh, he…he connected directly to MI6."

"You sound surprised."

"Even I can't do that from here. It's not a matter of clearance. MI6 operates on a completely separate network that's not public or accessible outside of the main hub, which I can assure you is quite small and contained since it works inside of a nest of block-long black spots. Even agents in the lobby have trouble finding enough reception."

"Hm. Good to know."

This time, Q did roll his eyes. "Do I need to sequester you, Sherlock?"

"I hardly think that's relevant-"

"I'm in the middle of damage control for a massive system hack and corruption and you're questioning my judgment on national security?"

"If you're worried about MI6 being compromised, they've likely been compromised for weeks. You on the other hand I can't say for how long, but not as long as those dolts that work under you or should be working under you."

"That's very reassuring. Does 'Moonraker' mean anything to you?"

"No, why?"

"They left a parting message, a codename for someone or something-"

"Obviously-And _where_ _the hell_ was your agent?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Q sighed, running a hand through his still bed-tousled hair.

"Don't you have a tracker on him like every other sensible quartermaster in MI6 does with their pets?"

"The tracker's silent and if Moriarty's words are any indication then he would have come when I called." Q didn't like the idea that Bond might be a casualty to this madman like Mycroft, but that was a terrible thought he had to consider moving forward. If it was true, then two of Britain's top soldiers were suddenly out of the game, and that made the prospect of fixing whatever this was very frightening. "Do you think Moriarty has Mycroft?"

Sherlock was silent for a long time. "Come to Baker Street. Lift a car if you have to, but don't take a cab. I'll expect you in half an hour-"

"Sherlock."

"I don't know. But if he does, we _will_ get him back, Quincy. I promise."

Q let out some nervous laughter that sounded anything but happy. "Mummy's not going to be very happy about this."

"She'll skin me alive if you aren't secured either. Get moving. And keep me on the entire way."

Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to him. What if Mycroft and Bond weren't the targets? What if Sherlock wasn't either? There was only one common denominator between Mycroft and Bond… and if Q endangered their last best chance of eliminating this threat, he would never forgive himself.

"I don't hear you moving," Sherlock drawled.

"I'm thinking," Q said, steeling himself for the argument which was sure to follow.

"Why are you thinking? What is there to possibly think over in this?"

"Sherlock. I can't compromise you."

"Everyone's openly compromised as it already is! Me especially! Moriarty knows where I am and how I operate-It doesn't matter!"

"You don't believe that. The only way we can gain ground back is if I disappear completely, and you know it. I'm an MI6 agent. I can take care of myself-"

"We both didn't give a thought to Mycroft's security and look what's happened to him. It will be no different for you-it will be dangerous!"

"Mycroft's different."

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?!"

"I'm attempting to give you leverage!"

"I will NOT sacrifice you to get a one up on Moriarty!"

"You'd do it if it were Mycroft."

"…not…willingly," Sherlock bit out. "And not like this. I know what Moriarty's capable of and if his game is to draw you out you will be doing exactly what he wants. By getting you he gets to me and he's won! I'm handicapped as it is without Mycroft and if I lose you-…"

Q pressed a shaking hand to his head, feeling his headache spike as he was finally hearing Sherlock openly admit that he cared. For so long Sherlock pretended and on occasion managed to convince them he didn't. Now, to hear it in all but the explicit words nearly undid all of Q's determination.

"Quincy. _Please._ "

Q swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Losing one brother is enough for me. Keep a tight leash on John. I'll contact you when I'm safe-"

"No-No-Quincy, don't you dare!-"

Q ended the call. It didn't even take Sherlock two seconds before he was calling back. Q watched it ring, then go silent as the call was forwarded to voicemail. Two seconds elapsed and Sherlock was calling again. This time Q declined the call and turned the device completely off. The tracker still inside his phone would function, but Q had no intentions of taking it with him. His laptop would unfortunately have to suffer the same fate, but not before having its memory wiped for further security.

Sherlock had taught him from a young age that disguise had its uses. And though Q hated the feel and style, he donned some more street appropriate clothing in lieu of his normal collection of sweaters and trousers. As he inspected himself in the mirror he cringed at the overall appearance of someone much younger than himself, or perhaps who he was trying not to appear to be in the normal world of professional government cut throats and analysts. The jeans, sneakers, and hoodie made him look like a kid. He threw on the leather jacket to ward off the cold. Not to make himself look any less younger, though if it did, perhaps that would be a benefit.

At twenty-six, he could hardly call himself young, even if every agent and supervisor in MI6 continued to do so to his face and behind his back. The tech kid. The computer boy. The prodigy child. The latter had been tagged onto the list by none other than Bond himself in jest just because he knew how much Q despised it. Incessant inane chatter. That's all it was. And if they had a look at him now he'd prove them all right. Going out on his own like this made him feel a little small, more than a little young, and more than just a little out of his league. But he had the best hacking skills in all of Britain (until tonight, a part of his brain reminded him) and that had to count for something.

He knew where to go. He knew how to escape one of the most watched metropolises in the world. It wouldn't be easy, but it was possible. He took one last look around his flat. It had never been a home for him, not since he left the family home in the country. This has been nothing more than a necessary shell the past few years. No pictures, no good memories. Such was the life of a government employee, he thought to himself. With nothing left to do he shouldered a pre-packed backpack with every thing he could possibly need for an occasion like this. He had hoped he would never have to use it, but it appeared he finally would.

He put the loaded gun in one pocket and his inhaler in the other. He felt a little winded from the stress of rushing around his flat but he knew his limits and knew he could ignore it for a while longer. He had a limited supply of the medicine with him and couldn't chance a quick trip for more, so he had to conserve as much as he could. He took the back stairs and exited into the dark alley behind the complex. He took a look around before setting off into a maze of alleyways. The more time he spent off main roads, the better. Had he kept looking over his shoulder on public streets like he was now, he'd give himself away within seconds. It had been a little while since his field training, but some of the main principles were coming back to him.

But not fast enough.

The next time he looked over his shoulder, as he was pulling up a manhole behind a restaurant, he saw two men walking towards him, dressed in black. Q stopped, fear icing through his heart, immobilizing him for just a second. Then the men started running towards him. Q ignored the ladder and jumped down beneath the ground. He landed in a messy crouch-one of his ankles throbbing-, scrambled up, and started to run into the dark recesses of subterranean London. Distantly he heard the two men drop in after him, but he kept running, making turns with only half a mind to where he was going. As long as he lost them, he could find out where he ended up later.

But they were too fast.

They caught up with him on a catwalk and tripped him. He fell face first, but whipped around in enough time to kick one of the men right in the balls. He went down like a sack of flour, but the second man was right behind him. Q managed to dodge a punch, and swung his backpack around to catch the man in the back of the head. He stumbled long enough for Q to pull out his gun. His hand got kicked away by the first man, the gun lost, and the next thing he knew he was pressed up against a wall with a hand at his throat cutting off his air. He clawed at the hand trying to choke him, but it was unyielding. He tried kicking out, but his assailant simply pressed his body in a _very_ uncomfortable way against his own. Q tried to struggle, make a noise, scream, do anything, but deep down he knew his body was acting on pure instinct instead of what was logical. What was logical was that they were so far beneath the ground that no one could possibly hear him even as he tried. What else was logical was that they weren't actively trying to kill him. If they were Q would have had a bullet in his head already.

They wanted him alive.

And that scared him more than imminent death.

Panic swept in, then. Darkness tunneling in around him from the lack of air. He could hear himself gasping, feel his face hot and red, and then like a rush of fresh air, he found himself on the ground coughing with fire in his lungs. He faintly registered sounds of a fight above him, but the blood rush in his ears made it impossible to distinguish anything else. Then, there were hands on him, hauling him up. He could feel himself struggling, but then there were hands on either side of his face. In his blurry vision-where has his glasses gotten to?-he made out familiar features. Features that promised safety and security, even if it was momentary.

"Whhhhere the…hhhhell haa-ave you…been, Bond," he gasped between coughs.

"Securing M," he replied, a bit winded himself. "Medicine?"

Q tried to speak, but could feel himself starting to lose consciousness. Instead he tried to fish it out of his pocket himself. Thankfully Bond got the hint and didn't waste a second.

"One," Bond counted, sounding like a professional physician. "Two, three."

Air thrust its way into his lungs, giving the fire a brief flare before it started to ease. Two more puffs later, Q collapsed back against the wall behind him, eyes closed and completely limp. He stayed there for a few minutes, trying desperately to get a hold of his own body. When he could drag his eyes open he found Bond placing his glasses back on him, a couple of cracks unfortunately in the lower right corner.

Bond put a finger against Q's neck and checked his pulse.

"M'fine…We should… get moving," Q whispered.

Bond pulled his hand away and set about reloading his gun. "We've got time."

"No, we don't… They have…Mycroft. I thought they had you."

"They almost got to M."

"How?"

"Victor Bolt," Bond spat.

"The new analyst," Q gasped. "Oh God."

Bond turned those sharp blue eyes to him. "What?"

"I hired him… This is…-my _fault_ -"

"Blame yourself later, but right now you need to keep breathing. Neither of us have time to stop by hospital."

"I'm sorry," he pleaded, unable to keep the tears from welling up.

"No one knew," Bond said with finality. _Not even me._

"What happened?"

"Airborne virus. But this one kills within seconds of breathing."

"How many dead?"

"They don't know. Most were from Q-branch."

"Lucy," he enquired about the redheaded secretary.

Bond shook his head.

Q shook his head, unable to keep the tears back any longer. "I'll kill him for this."

"That's my job."

"Not this time," Q promised. "And don't… ask me if I've ever killed anyone, Bond."

Bond gave him a cool calculating look with mild to moderate interest that Q had only ever seen him give an adversary before. Typically the female ones. "Put your arms around my neck."

Q glared. "Bond, I hardly think now's the time for-"

"Much as I'd enjoy that myself, if you want to get moving this is the only way we're doing it."

Q huffed, as much as a person recovering from another near asthma attack could, he supposed. Bond turned his back to him and somewhat reluctantly Q did as Bond asked, with Bond's arms snaking around his legs. It took the older man less than a second to shoulder Q's slight weight. Q wondered if he was much of a bother at all to Bond.

"I haven't been carried like this since I was a boy," he mumbled.

Bond scoffed. "You're still a boy, Q."

"Thank you very much for that confidence booster."

"Rest, Q. That _is_ the whole point of this."

"You can't exactly carry me like this above ground unless you want attention. And with your track record-"

"Can you walk?"

"…maybe."

"That's good reassurance."

Bond adjusted his grip on Q and leaned a little more forward as he walked so Q could do less work to keep himself upright. Finally, Q thought. Finally he knew what those infamous muscles felt like. If he had the energy, he would have made a mental note to flaunt it to Eve's face when all this was said and done. But right now, he had no idea how whatever this was was going to play out. And to think this all had started with a bloody asthma attack…


	2. Chapter 2 - Properly Caffeinated

**A/N: I just wanted to have as much snark-filled fun as I possibly could with this chapter, which leant itself well for a lot of interesting things in the end. It felt like a good direction to take, so I may continue with this for some chapters to see how things work out. All I really have is the shell, so all the 'in between' stuff is coming to me as things go. SO, that being said, if you have any suggestions for potential shenanigans or otherwise that you might want to see, let me know. Also a quick thank you to Tori-Bird627 for the first review! Hope this next chapter is as good of a read as it was to write it.**

* * *

 **Chapter Two - Properly Caffeinated**

 **(** ** **…3 months earlier…** )**

 _He was running._

 _And panting._

 _The sun was blinding him on a cloudless windy day. If it weren't for the sun he'd be able to see the bright blue sky behind the light and his brothers up ahead, shouting at him to keep up, teasing him in good nature. Never like the relentless bullies in prep school. They raced along the edge of the cliffs like they did when they were young. Sometimes he thought he could feel the relief of ocean spray._

 _He stumbled._

 _But he stayed on his feet. When he looked back up the distance between him and his brothers grew, yet still they called for him as the gulls screamed to his side. It was hot. And he was tired, gasping for air, for every step, every breath. His chest was on fire. His body was bathing in his own sweat and a chill started to creep up his back. He was wheezing. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to stop, but his brothers kept calling for him._

 _He tripped again._

 _This time he fell._

 _And there was no ground beneath his feet._

* * *

Q jolted awake with a sharp wheezing gasp, automatically reaching for his inhaler on the nightstand. When his mind caught up with his body, he forced himself to hold his hand down on the table's smooth surface. He concentrated on his breath, going through the well-worn exercises that were subconscious friends steering him through the inevitable discomfort. Reluctantly he drew the plastic inhaler to his mouth and took one dose, holding himself as tall as he could, sitting in tangled bed sheets. The dependent part of him begged for another, but he forced himself to drown in the calm of relief, and soon he found he could breathe fairly well on his own, but with a strong aftertaste of iron and a heavy feeling in his chest. He turned bleary eyes to the clock.

4:30AM

He overslept.

He checked his phone.

73 emails.

He glanced at the flags.

0 critical. 21 time sensitive. 52 routine daily drudgeries.

It was already shaping up to be a boring day.

He could afford to oversleep.

But he was already awake.

This was a time of the morning that didn't exist to normal people. But to those whose job description included international espionage and putting up with MI-6 agents who had a propensity for losing/destroying high-tech government-funded weaponry, this was a lazy lie-in. There being no sleep for the wicked gave things a new meaning when you were, in all 'off record' and some 'on record' terms, James Bond's glorified babysitter. And for the record, Bond had been behaving himself as of late. No emergency calls at barely three in the bloody morning because the man had turned off his tracker to shag some contact or mistress for sensitive information.

It had been a couple of weeks since the last one of those calls from the office. For that, Q thought on some level he might be obligated to make Bond a new weapon as reinforcement for good behavior. It certainly couldn't hurt. And the man had been looking a little ragged the past couple of weeks. Q supposed that after Skyfall he had finally realized his age was starting to catch up with him. Not that middle age looked bad on Bond at all, quite the opposite. But that train of thought never led to good things, so Q turned his morning shower into a slightly colder one.

Normally he'd be able to take a straight cold shower for a short period of time, but so soon after a lovely little domestic with his lungs all but voided any chance he had at immediately getting rid of his morning erection. Stubbornly ignoring his problem seemed to work for a time, and given the weather forecast any remaining stiffness would alleviate itself as he waited for his car outside. He glanced around in the darkness of the early morning and sent his morning text to his driver, as always. Just as he sent it, however, a car pulled up right in front of him. The door was opened by a man seated inside who didn't spare him a glance from his own phone when he said, "Get in."

Q stood there for a moment on the curb with his head cocked to the side and a raised eyebrow in defiance. "You're not my driver," he replied, disinterested.

After a glare from the occupant of the car, Q rolled his eyes and slid inside the sleek black government-issued car. Across from him, his brother was silent, texting away on his phone, bundled up properly with a black wool coat and scarf, leather gloves laid orderly across his lap. Q removed his own gloves and loosened the matching scarf wrapped around his own neck. It had been their mother's Christmas present last year. Three matching scarves for her three boys with an open threat that if they didn't spend more time together and with her, there would be consequences.

They actively avoided said consequences at all costs.

"And to what do I owe this early morning pleasure?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, pausing in his morning messaging. "Mummy's birthday is coming up."

"How could I forget? You never give me a chance to."

"It would be in your best interest to keep your evening on the twenty-fourth available-"

"Like always."

"If you need transportation-"

"I do have a license-"

"You don't drive-"

"And just because I choose not to doesn't mean I won't crash into a lorry the second I find myself behind the wheel of a BMW."

Mycroft shook his head with a soft smile. "You certainly got father's sense of humor."

"So did Sherlock," Q pointed out, tossing his gloves to the seat beside him. "And it's not really humor. Just an unhealthy dose of sarcasm. Can I have my coffee now?"

Mycroft smirked and depressed a small compartment in the side of the car. Two cups of steaming Starbucks sat in warmers, one labeled double espresso and the other a vanilla cappuccino. "You're in fine form this morning," Mycroft observed, handing Q his double espresso.

Q let the beverage warm his hands before taking a tentative sip to test the temperature. "I don't like this new medicine."

"It's all natural."

"I'm sorry my lungs don't quite agree."

"The doctor said it would take some time-"

"There's an after-taste-"

"It's supposed to have quicker relief time than the old medicine-"

"Well it bloody doesn't," Q snapped, descending into a short coughing fit.

"Drink," Mycroft instructed. "Take a breath."

Q glared half-heartedly before complying. The espresso helped. He sat back and closed his eyes, listening to the lull of the car and concentrating on the warm coffee in his hands. "You know how much I hate being dependent on something so trivial," he said, eyes still closed.

"Being able to breathe isn't exactly trivial, Quincy."

Q sighed and opened his eyes, counting the streetlights as they passed.

"Even when Sherlock tries to convince you otherwise."

Q cracked a smile and took a deep breath before diving into the blessed warmth of his drink again. "Is it official yet?"

"I would assume so based on the black eye John seems to have given him."

"Serves him right for compromising them both. It was too bloody amateur of him. He knows better."

"That he does," Mycroft agreed. "But perhaps one day, little brother, you'll understand exactly the kind of detriments love can have on things that are supposed to be logical."

Q raised an eyebrow and spoke with a warning. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"

Mycroft smiled. "Let's call it a nudge for now. You're old enough to tell Mummy your own habits without me having to cover for you anymore."

"What habits?"

"My point."

Q rolled his eyes. "Rest assured I have no interests at the moment, nor will there be any in the near future, so you can call off your dogs and Mummy's until further notice."

"Your new secretary seems to be getting along quite well," his brother challenged.

"It's her second day."

"She adapts well."

"She's not my type."

"She used to be your type."

" _She's eighteen._ We're not having this conversation, Mycroft."

"She's a Oxford graduate. Top of her class I believe-"

"Do you want me to hack your server and decorate your firewalls with your Christmas baby pictures?"

Mycroft sighed and frowned. "Sherlock and I have engagements of our own. Weddings are inevitable. I am merely warning you that you are next on Mummy's radar. And you do know to what lengths she will go to ensure grandchildren."

"I thought you already took care of that…"

Mycroft frowned and leveled Q with a warning glare. "That is not public knowledge yet."

Q fought down a smirk. "Useful information."

The car slowed down and pulled up to the front door of MI-6. Q wasted no time and immediately jumped out of the car, but Mycroft's quick reflexes snagged Q by the wrist. "Get her something nice."

"I'm assuming you've already sent me a list of things to choose from?"

"Of course."

"Then you have nothing to worry about. You've successfully avoided a familial catastrophe by pre-empting any subconscious attempt at forgetfulness, nevermind my actual feelings on the matter. Thank you for the coffee," he said, yanking his wrist free with a sharp tug.

As he entered the front lobby, the desk manager saw that he was in a foul mood and didn't even ask for his ID, just waved him on with a nod. He must have some kind of dark cloud over his head when he entered Q-branch because the overnight interns took one look at him and scattered. Once Q was settled into his office he threw himself into his emails, which were all answered and seen to forty minutes later. By that point the espresso was gone and he was contemplating another double. He managed to send a quick text off to his secretary before being bombarded with texts from his other older brother.

 _-Traitor.-S_

Q rolled his eyes. _-I have a day job, in case you've forgotten.-Q_

 _-And I've just come back from the dead.-S_

 _-I would have thought that would garner some small amount of brotherly affection on your part.-S_

 _-…-S_

 _-…-S_

 _-I am wounded.-S_

 _-You're whining.-Q_

 _-You had ample opportunity, Quincy.-S_

 _-You're not getting an apology, Sherlock.-Q_

 _-What did he promise you?-S_

 _-Mycroft didn't promise me anything.-Q_

 _-Rot.-S_

 _-What was it?-S_

 _-A new car?-S_

 _-Mummy's undying love?-S_

 _-The new Audi hoverboard?-S_

 _-I consulted on that hoverboard.-Q_

 _-They gave me one as a souvenir.-Q_

 _-I tossed it because the final product was pitiful and saved the president billions of dollars an hour before it went on market.-Q_

 _-He wrote me a check.-Q_

 _-Mycroft got you a double shot of espresso instead of a single this morning, didn't he?-S_

"Interesting choice."

Q glanced up from his text-war with Sherlock to find Bond standing in front of his desk in a midnight blue suit with a silver and white striped tie. Beneath that was a matching blue vest that left little to Q's immediate imagination. Bond picked up the empty Starbucks cup with his typical straight face, which usually meant he was in a teasing mood. "Don't kids go for the small hipster places these days?"

 _-Now I know how easily you can be bought.-S_

Q frowned at his phone and sent off a one-worded insult before putting it on silent. "I'm not sure I would know the answer to that question, Bond, since that generation does not apply to me."

Before Bond could reply to the smart answer laced with thinly veiled irritation, Lucy, Q's secretary entered with another double shot espresso, this time in a Q-branch coffee mug, and the morning reports. "Seeing as how I'm nine years his junior, 007, I'm sure you'd agree I'd be better equipped to answer that question. And in case you were wondering, I import my coffee grounds."

Q smirked at Bond's ineloquent response of, "Really."

"Thank you, Lucy," he said, taking the coffee mug as she set the reports down on the corner of his desk.

"You've got sharp ears," Bond offered.

Lucy gave him a patient smile. "Only when it comes to the daily itinerary of my boss."

"Don't I get a copy of those?"

"No," Lucy said with an overly sweet smile that clearly said, _now kindly piss off_. "Your first analyst is here for his interview," she said before she returned to her desk.

Q made a noise of little interest as he tried very hard not to chug the scalding liquid. "He's early."

Lucy nodded with a wince. "He seems a bit _eager_."

"Lovely. Send him in at the agreed upon appointment time and not a minute earlier."

"Yes, sir," she said with a smile as she left.

Once the glass door closed again, Bond tossed the empty Starbucks cup into the bin.

"You run a tight ship."

Q leaned back in his chair, determined to enjoy his second double espresso even when Bond was purposefully trying to be a killjoy. "We're on government payroll."

"Easy to forget," Bond said from behind Q's chair.

Q pulled one of the reports closer and started paging through it. "Only when you're a 00."

Bond leaned against one of the side glass walls. "Doesn't Mallory usually handle new hires?"

"Not when the last three he's hired have failed simple tech field tests. Settling for second-best just to save a little money is not worth sacrificing national security to me."

"Fair enough," the agent conceded. "When will he know?"

"I imagine he'll find out by eleven thirty. By that point I'll have had seven interviews and hopefully a new analyst already sent down to Human Resources." Q looked up from the second report and fixed Bond with an appraising look. "I would have thought office politics too subtle an art to interest you."

Bond put his hands in his pockets and crossed back over to Q's desk. "A little domestic every now and then is a nice change of pace. They don't make quite as much of a mess."

The corner of Q's mouth quirked up in a half smile as he gave the man a pitying look. "Sounds like you need a proper teacher."

Bond snatched the third report right out of Q's hand and started perusing it himself. "That new waterproof semi-automatic with the detachable infrared wouldn't happen to be for me, now would it, Q," Bond asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Q swiped the designs to the side and leveled Bond with a soft glare as he held out his empty hand. "Not unless you've done something naughty I ought to be aware of before I post that report. I do not have time for addendums from Mallory."

Bond faithfully turned the report back to Q's possession. "Is it indestructible?"

"Nothing is indestructible with you 007. That is the challenge."

"A worthy one, I hope."

Bond was leaning one hand against the corner of Q's desk, his suggestive hips at a contrapposto that put a few wrinkles in his vest. The sight of the lean powerful body of the assassin kicked his imagination into high gear and Q momentarily floundered as he battled internally with himself and the practicalities of sweater vests _because_ they didn't have buttons, _because_ they didn't wrinkle in those kind of ways, _because_ it was statistically less sexy to bother…

Bother with…

"Wh-…"

Bond was smirking.

At him.

Oh, bother.

Q cleared his throat, shoving professionalism to the forefront. "What makes you think it isn't a worthy challenge?"

"You have a decent poker face," Bond allowed.

Q was taken aback by the genuine honesty, that Bond didn't-or didn't seem-to have any underlying game. James Bond was always fishing for something. "Do I?"

The agent inclined his head, but said nothing more. He just stared. Softly.

Any normal British Intelligence agent might have already had their defenses up, but Q might have been a little behind on 007's wiles. It didn't mean Q was ignorant of the man's ways, and it most certainly didn't mean Q agreed with them either, but the merest remotest possibility that Bond could be…actively _flirting_ with—

Eve Moneypenny cleared her throat loudly by the door.

And just like that, Q yanked his mug to his chest as he leaned back in his chair, barely escaping an early morning coffee stain on his sweater vest. Bond didn't move an inch except to acknowledge the woman's entrance.

"Is it Bond or me you're after," Q asked. "Because I have approximately three and a half minutes until my first of several-"

"Lucy briefed me, don't worry," she interjected. "You chose good on that one. Even if I did momentarily question your taste."

"If she was seventy, I'd still have hired her."

Eve gave Q a smile before rounding on 007. "Mallory wants you in his office. Now."

"That bodes well," the agent commented lightly before crossing to the door.

"Given what hints you dropped to me," Q couldn't help but give as a parting farewell. "I would say you were prolonging the inevitable."

Bond stopped next to Moneypenny and turned back, eyes ever-challenging. "Would you like my opinion, for once?"

"Do I have a choice," Q asked.

"Scrap the infrared. You know I don't need it."

After that, Bond took his leave and made his way to Mallory's office. Moneypenny followed Bond's retreat with undisguised appreciation. She raised an eyebrow to Q once the agent was out of sight. "Doesn't need much of anything, that one."

Q pretended to care more about his lukewarm espresso. "Because he knows how to handle himself or because of his arse? Half the interns have instagrammed it, another quarter are going so far as to maintain a twitter account for it, and the other quarter are quivering in their seats in anticipation for the hourly update."

"Can you blame them?"

"I suppose not." It came out of his mouth faster than his thoughts could catch up with him. And when he was staring down some odd little explosion of triumph from Moneypenny, Q could only roll his eyes. "Don't give me that look, Eve-"

"I knew it!"

"Knew what?"

She tried to school her girlish excitement, but she didn't quite manage it. "You," she accused in a conspiring whisper. "And him."

"There is nothing between-"

"Yet-"

" _No,_ and there won't ever be, now get back to your desk before I flag your supervisor which unfortunately isn't myself."

"Got some bite to you. You're perfect for him."

Q glared until she finally turned her back and returned to her desk, and with a telltale skip to her step, which meant she was planning something. Q would have been worried, but when Lucy sent in the first applicant, who was already a sweaty nervous mess, all he could think about was surviving the next few hours before Mallory's inevitable explosion over Q's blatant flouting of his personnel authority.

"It's not my fault Bond has a perfectly formed arse," he muttered to himself.

"Sir," the applicant asked, standing awkwardly next to the vacant chair on the opposite side of the desk.

A parting text from Sherlock pinged in.

 _-Shall I stop by headquarters at 3 with a triple Espresso Con Panna so we can discuss new blackmail material?-S_

Sherlock certainly knew how to play dirty. The why, at the very least, was intriguing. And he was going to need whipped cream if he was to sit through the next couple of hours of…this.

The applicant turned to the side and quickly stuck a finger deep into his ear.

 _-Make it 2:30. I will clear you half an hour.-Q_


	3. Chapter 3 - Meetings

**A/N: Saw Spectre recently. Words cannot express how much I wanted to fangirl squeal when I saw Andrew Scott as C (Max Denbigh). Oddly enough though, I wasn't really sure what I could use from the new movie, aside from Q having a couple of cats. I may use something else at some point, but for now I think I'll just go with the idea that this happens after Skyfall and after Reichenbach of course. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Three – Meetings**

Victor Bolt was a touch indecent.

His tongue peeked out of the corner of his mouth as he worked.

It was his only tell and though it gave nothing away, it was most distracting.

But thankfully all Q had to worry about was Bolt's physical performance: the lack of sweat, the intent concentration, and the damn good poker face he had whilst in the middle of what was supposed to be a stressful skill test. The test would judge his skills unbiased, and so far it looked like the man was doing well, which was a little hard for Q to believe. But he designed the program, and the facts didn't lie. In some areas, Bolt had better dexterity than Q himself. Occasionally he'd slip up, but would quickly correct his error and move on. Q leaned on a post to the side, quietly observing, and wishing he had ten cryptographers just like him.

And if he was being completely honest it wasn't just because of his extensive skill set.

The man was built like a supermodel. He was tall, relatively thin, had some muscle, and a strong jawline. According to his file, Bolt was five years Q's elder, though he certainly didn't look it. He was dressed impeccably, in an expensive looking suit that looked well worn but also well taken care of. How he kept his light colored hair suggested military, though it was nowhere in his file. And the man wore a watch.

Q's father wore a similar watch every single day of his life. On the day that he unexpectedly passed, he had forgotten it on the bedside table. Their mother hadn't moved it from its place since, and neither he nor his brothers talked about it.

He wasn't quite sure why it bothered him so much. Lots of men wore watches. Hell, even Bond wore one. It was an old school sentiment. Smart phones nowadays made wearing them a superfluity, though Apple was championing their return as a mini smart computer. The very idea turned Q's stomach, and he was a quartermaster for MI-6. He had made similar devices for 00s with stellar field success, but they acted more like a swiss army knife of weaponry than anything else.

Seeing a watch that did nothing more than tell the time, in short for Q, was somewhat romantic.

He wanted to scowl, but didn't want to give his new analyst the wrong impression.

Bolt finished up and turned to face Q with a small smile.

"I'll hazard a guess that I passed," Bolt asked.

"With flying colors," Q reassured. "I think I've seen all I need to see."

Bolt nodded and got up to collect his things. "Very good. When should I expect to hear from you?"

"As soon as you finish up with Human Resources."

Bolt stopped short, shocked.

Q smiled. "I hope you had no other plans today?"

"N-no, not at all," Bolt stammered. "So I… have the job?"

"Perhaps it is a bit unorthodox, but yes, you do. And I need you, as soon as possible. Human Resources may take a while, especially with the clearances you'll need, so prepare yourself for a bit of a wait, but afterwards I want to see you up in my office so we can get you started and introduced to the team."

A wide smile spread across Bolt's face that gave Q's stomach a couple of butterflies. "Of course. Yes. Thank you," he said extending his hand, which Q shook. "Thank you very much."

"Don't thank me yet. Your next hurdle is out of both our hands. Unofficially though, welcome to the team. I am late for a surprise meeting with my superior, so Lucy will take you where you need to go. Very good to have you on board, Victor."

With that Q turned and made a beeline for the door, exiting the room with a quicker pace than was strictly necessary. He found himself in front of Lucy's desk in less time than he expected. The girl looked up from her computer with a frown and a raised brow.

"Sir," she prompted.

"Oh," Q remembered, handing the portfolio to Lucy and shaking himself. "Bolt passed. Take him down to Human Resources? I believe I'm running a bit late."

Lucy smiled and handed Q a steaming cup of coffee. "And I was about to tell you about your impromptu meeting."

Q made a noise as he sipped from the hot cup. "It was an inevitability, but given Mallory's schedule, process of elimination makes things rather simple."

"You're making this job too easy, you know."

"The fact that you're ahead of the game nine times out of ten proves I hired the right person, Lucy."

"Tell my mum that at the Christmas party," she asked on her way down the hall.

"Anything for you, love," Q shot back.

Lucy shook her head and met Bolt halfway down the hall. The two headed down to HR without further preamble, while Q was trying very hard not to drag his feet toward Mallory's office. The coffee was certainly helping, but he was fairly certain Mallory would frown like he always did. In the short time it took Eve to rise from her desk and inform Mallory that Q was waiting for him, Q checked his email.

100 new emails.

99 of them could wait.

One, oddly enough was from a name and a link that immediately sent red flags up in his head. He quickly texted Lucy and his team, ignored the 35 new texts from Sherlock, and composed himself before being waved in by Eve. He set the phone to silent and stowed it in his pocket as he entered Mallory's office. Eve closed the door behind him with a sympathetic wince and Q decided to stand next to the chair and wait for an invitation to sit. Aside from Eve's reaction, the stormy look Mallory was throwing his way gave Q enough of a warning to tread lightly.

Mallory still hadn't invited him to sit.

Not good.

He wanted to sip at his coffee as a personal security measure, but refrained.

The thick silence was going on three full minutes before Q was starting to lose his composure. Christ, maybe those stories of Mallory back in the academy were true after all. A single glare, he had heard, was all it took to send new recruits scattering like little rabbits. Q was not new to Mallory's temper, but this was the first time he was the sole target, and it was most uncomfortable.

Q cleared his throat quietly. "Sir-"

The response was swift and sharp. "Sit."

No neutral ground then.

Q sat with caution, never taking his eyes from Mallory, and still not daring to take a drink of the cooling coffee in his hands.

"I'll assume you know why I had you called in?"

"Of course."

"Then would you care to explain to me who the hell have you the authority to actively recruit a new cryptographer without my knowledge nor clearance from HR?"

"Wilson did, when he failed to get the firewall properly rebuilt after Silva."

"Forgive me," Mallory responded with ice. "But I fail to see how one man's mistake suddenly grants you sole permission to post a bloody public add on the internet for a new cryptographic analyst for MI-6."

Q took a sip of coffee to wet his lips. It had gone cold as well. "It was an encrypted site-"

"Meant to draw the best, yes? I can see the influence Silva's had on you and it is not flattering Q, not at all. This is not how we operate, and if you were not as good as you are, you could have exposed the entire network to a nest of hackers that would have made Swiss cheese of our databanks."

"I am, however, that good," he said. "Sir. We need the best. And the best are not typically fresh out of Cambridge."

Mallory sat back with a dissatisfied sigh. "Q, the only other reason aside from your ingenuity that I put up with you is because of your family."

Q tried very hard not to roll his eyes, and mostly succeeded. "With all due respect, sir, everyone in London knows who my family is."

"Which is the very reason why you should not be working within MI-6 in the first place. The Diogenes Club is a subsidiary of MI-6-"

"Don't let Mycroft hear you say that."

"Where and from whom we get our delicate information is besides the point-"

Q winced. "Best not let him hear you said that either-"

Mallory cleared his throat with a glare.

"Sir," Q added.

"I want to know who you're hiring before you hire them. I want to know where you're recruiting, how you're recruiting, and exactly who's coming through those doors before they do. It's standard bloody security for God's sake."

"He's already passed the standard background check?"

"This is MI-6. There is no standard for _background checks_. Nor will there be."

"Duly noted. If you're so concerned, have Bond tag after him for a week. The poor man should be bored to tears. Might also serve as a good punishment I know you haven't thought up for him because of Iceland yet."

Mallory smirked, but quickly wiped his face clean and took on a more serious note. "You know where this is coming from Q. We cannot afford any more slip ups after Silva."

"Which is why I chose who I did. He's good. He's better than anyone else who's been cleared to come through those doors. He can think on his feet, he has excellent references that have been checked and cross-referenced, and his knowledge in cryptography is almost as good as my own."

Mallory sighed again. "What's his name?"

"Victor Bolt."

"Where did he come from?"

"CIA, apparently. The only snag is that his dual citizenship is still pending."

Mallory gave him a look. "That's a pretty big snag."

"It is."

"Why?"

"He hasn't been able to find steady employment, so he's been forced to freelance."

"For who?"

Q motioned to the file on M's desk. "Standard background check covers that, I believe."

Mallory rolled his eyes. "Does he have field experience?"

"If you mean to ask if he's held a gun before, no. He has broken codes with guns held to his head in record time, however."

"We'll have to test that. Just to be sure, of course."

"Of course. I would, however, appreciate it if you didn't scare off the only qualified cryptographer I've come across in six months. I did list national security as one of my top priorities on my job application."

"I appreciate the sentiment. You'll be notified by HR when he's been cleared."

"Of course, sir."

"Q, this is a warning."

"On the record?"

"On the record. Do not step above me again, or you'll find yourself without a job."

"On the record, then, I should mention I have two cats to feed."

"I'm sure Mycroft would be accommodating."

"He's allergic."

"All the better then for you, then."

Q took that as his dismissal and went for the door.

"And Q," Mallory called after him. "When you see Sherlock this afternoon, kindly remind him that he owes us for the intelligence we passed to him, not the other way around."

Q inclined his head on his way out. "Why does that not surprise me," he muttered to himself.

By the time Q got to the café and sat down it had been approximately two hours, fifteen minutes, and thirty-seven seconds since his last dose of caffeine. Though he'd been out in the cold for only a few minutes, the cold was starting to get to him, which further influenced his decision for the chair in the far corner in the back. He was early, but he meant to be. He hadn't seen Sherlock in years. Part of him was nervous to see what had changed in all that time, but the other part of him was desperate to hear his older brother's sarcastic quips. After their father had passed it had been Sherlock that instantly brought Q comfort because their vocal intonations were so similar.

Over the years he'd often call Sherlock in the dead of night if he woke from a nightmare, if he wanted to complain about Mycroft, about the medicine, about his agent, and Sherlock would always listen. Q would always feel guilty leading up to the call because he was only encouraging Sherlock's insomnia, but listening to his brother's non-verbal responses put him at ease quicker than any corticosteroid with an impending asthma attack. Granted, Q hadn't had a serious attack in years, but he'd come damn close a couple of times. The latest of which caused Mycroft to supersede Q's doctor recommendations and prescribe a new type of corticosteroid that had met with some success in Switzerland. Q wasn't happy, and not having Sherlock to complain to over the past four months since he started it was wearing his patience thin.

Hell, even Bond noticed. The agent had been rather easy on him the past couple of months, and sometimes it made Q embarrassed to even think about it. He didn't need to be coddled by a 00 agent of all people.

As he stewed in the corner, tapping the corner of his phone on the table while lost in thought, he didn't notice Sherlock enter and quietly order two drinks. It wasn't until the man came to stand in front of the table that Q's concentration broke. Q stood up and stared. Sherlock offered the triple Con Panna he promised and Q took it after a moment's hesitation. He wanted so badly to embrace his brother, to convince himself he wasn't hallucinating, but reminded himself at the last possible moment that Sherlock wouldn't want it.

Not publicly, at least.

So they sat.

Sherlock gestured to the drink in Q's hand.

Q sipped it, and he was comforted.

"How are your birthday presents," Sherlock asked, as if asking about something as dull as the weather.

Q snorted and cracked a smile. "They're still alive."

"Good, they're purebreds."

Q rolled his eyes. "Let me guess, you had to barter a few body parts for them?"

"More like several."

"I can't really see you going to that much trouble for a couple of Russian Blues."

"It was your birthday," Sherlock said. "I was absent. I was not certain how much more time I would need."

Q wouldn't admit it out loud to Sherlock, of course, but the two kittens he'd sent him had helped him quite a bit through Sherlock's absence. Sherlock had never told him where he's acquired the two girls, but Q could have guessed if he wanted to. They'd been genetically modified to age at a much slower rate than normal. By all means, both of the girls should have grown into fuller sized cats by now, but had both stayed roughly the same size the day Q had gotten them three years ago. While it was incredibly endearing, it was also a little worrying. The last thing Q wanted was to come home to a dead kitten one day than a fully-grown cat. Sherlock had assured him the girls wouldn't drop dead on him suddenly, but Q wasn't so sure with genetic modification.

"Names?"

"Hemera and Nyx," Q answered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you want to be blatantly appropriate about it…"

"They've taken to them well enough."

"I don't suppose they've granted me any clemency for the past few years?"

Q gave his brother a soft glare. "Some," he allowed.

"Better than nothing. So. How far along is our dear Althea?"

"Two months I think. Typically women wait until the first trimester's passed before posting anything on social network."

"I doubt she will."

Q frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There were two prior miscarriages with two separate lovers within the past six years. I looked into her medical records and John's concurred with me that she does have a predisposition."

"How old were the fetuses?"

"Both five weeks. Not long after, both relationships ended."

"I assume she's taking precautions this time?"

"Every precaution that can be taken under Mycroft's watch-"

"Which is everything in and around the sun known to man. If Mummy finds out it'll be World War Three."

Sherlock smiled broadly. "I'm looking forward to it."

"You're only looking forward to it because you're not at the epicenter for once. Has John forgiven you?"

"He's coming around."

Q put his triple espresso down and fixed Sherlock with a hard look. "You do realize you cannot make a mistake like that again, don't you?"

Sherlock sighed and looked elsewhere. "I got carried away."

"Thank you for admitting it. But why him? Why Moriarty? You've had your share of nemeses before with little to no trouble and I'm not blaming this error on John."

Sherlock was silent for a long time. Q didn't touch his espresso. He waited. Finally, Sherlock spoke, quietly. "There's a madness in intellect. I… forgot myself. He reminded me."

"You have to be absolutely certified to think you and he share a singular similar genome. Sherlock, you're not like him and you never will be."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Your concern is touching."

"Your doubt is concerning. You never used to doubt yourself, not before John."

"What are you implying?"

"Why are you asking what I'm implying? You know what I mean. You've gone soft and that's dangerous with the games you continue to play. It's not just our family that's at stake anymore…"

"What did Mallory have to say?"

Q sighed. "He wants you to keep your paws off MI-6's security walls."

"And here I thought I was helping you by pointing out all it's flaws."

"You don't have the proper clearance or code access. My day job provides no time or resources for cleaning up after you. And if you keep this up you can forget about the Christmas present I'm making you."

Sherlock pouted.

"I mean it, Sherlock. We don't need a third party from the outside drawing in any unnecessary attention."

"Speak for yourself. You've hired your new cryptographer, I take it?"

"It was a good try," Q allowed. "But posing as an analyst from the Czech Republic was not your best disguise."

"I weeded out the rest for you. I'd have thought that would have at least gotten me through the front door."

"If you think for one second that you would have passed the background check-" Suddenly, Q's phone rang. He groaned, having forgotten to silence it and fished for it in his bag where he'd dropped it when they both sat down. "I cannot leave those children alone for one single… Oh. This never bodes well…"

Sherlock paused mid sip and his eyes widened.

"Hello Mummy," Q said in the most pleasant tone he could manage. "How are you this afternoon-?" Not even thirty seconds later Q was frowning, giving Sherlock a pitying glance and offering him his phone. "She wants to talk to you."

Sherlock took the phone with a cold and murderous glance at his brother before smiling and greeting their mother through the receiver, whom he had not as of yet contacted since his return.

And there was only one person who could have spilled the beans.

Mycroft was a dead man.


End file.
